Flimp cleared his throat in a way that suggested he had seen comedians do that on television and decided it was important. The microphone squealed for half a second before he tapped it twice and smiled at the tiny audience of two. The white suit was a little too big, the red bow tie a little too proud of itself, but Flimp stood like he was headlining a sold out theater instead of the quiet end of The Candy Bar.

Charmy leaned toward Frenchy and whispered, “Why does he always dress like a wedding cake.”

Frenchy shrugged. “Confidence.”

Flimp raised a finger dramatically. “Oopa blim eek.”

Frenchy tilted her head. “I do not know, Flimp. Why did the scarecrow win an award.”

Flimp bounced on his heels. “Eeka straw hoo.”

Frenchy winced, then turned to Charmy. “Flimp says because he was outstanding in his field.”

Charmy snorted despite himself. “That one has been around since the invention of fields.”

Flimp nodded seriously, as if age only added prestige. He paced a few steps, nearly tripping over the microphone cord, recovered smoothly, and launched into the next one.

“Oopa chink flap.”

Frenchy sighed. “Flimp asks, why do ghosts hate social media.”

Charmy raised an eyebrow. “I feel attacked already.”

Flimp grinned. “Eeka boo feed.”

Frenchy rubbed her temples. “Flimp says because everyone keeps unfollowing them.”

Charmy laughed quietly. “That is modern. I do not like how modern that is.”

Flimp basked in the muted laughter, pointing finger guns at the bar like he had just crushed a late night set. Candy glanced over, suspicious, but Frenchy waved her off and mouthed, “Inside joke.”

Flimp leaned closer to the microphone, lowering his voice like he was about to confess something dangerous.

“Oopa sneek zap.”

Frenchy squinted. “Flimp asks, why did the math book look sad.”

Charmy shook his head. “I already regret staying.”

Flimp tapped his forehead. “Eeka many probs.”

Frenchy sighed. “Flimp says because it had too many problems.”

Charmy laughed and covered his mouth. “I am going to need therapy after this.”

Flimp bowed deeply, then popped back up and struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other holding the microphone like it was a torch. He soaked in the silence, mistaking it for thunderous applause.

Frenchy leaned over. “He thinks he is killing.”

Charmy nodded. “In a very specific, very private way.”

Flimp raised both arms again, signaling one more, maybe two more, maybe as many as the universe would allow. Frenchy crossed her arms. “Four total. That is the deal.”

Flimp saluted.

“Oopa wink clop.”

Frenchy sighed. “Flimp asks, why did the computer go to the doctor.”

Charmy smirked. “Because it listens to Flimp.”

Flimp shook his head vigorously. “Eeka virus sneeze.”

Frenchy groaned. “Flimp says because it caught a virus.”

Charmy laughed again, quieter this time, like he was afraid someone might hear the humor leaking out. “That one felt personal.”

Flimp nodded sympathetically, then perked up, clearly not done. He tiptoed closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that still somehow echoed.

“Oopa snack tick.”

Frenchy rolled her eyes. “Flimp asks, why do ants never get sick.”

Charmy paused. “Okay, now I am curious.”

Flimp smiled sweetly. “Eeka tiny bodies.”

Frenchy stared at him. “Flimp says because they have little anty bodies.”

Charmy groaned. “That is species discrimination.”

Flimp placed a hand over his heart, offended, then grinned again. He spun once, nearly smacking a sugar dispenser, and steadied himself with grace that surprised everyone involved.

Frenchy leaned toward Charmy. “That was four. We survived again.”

Charmy nodded. “Barely. This is how cults start.”

Flimp placed the microphone gently on the bar and bowed, bow tie wobbling like it was also bowing. He straightened up and whispered, “Oopa.”

Frenchy smiled despite herself. “Flimp says thank you for coming to his show.”

Charmy raised his glass. “I want it on record that I did not pay for this.”

Candy wandered over again, eyeing the suit. “Is he done.”

Frenchy nodded. “For now.”

Candy squinted at Flimp. “Good. Last time he told jokes I had a guy ask if we host open mic nights.”

Flimp puffed out his chest proudly.

Charmy leaned back, feeling the odd warmth that came from shared nonsense. “You know, Frenchy, if this ever leaks online it would trend.”

Frenchy shook her head. “Nope. This is not for the algorithm.”

Flimp smiled knowingly, tapping his temple.

The bar returned to its usual rhythm, quiet conversations, coffee steam, Candy humming along to a song no one recognized. Flimp stayed where he was, content, performer turned philosopher, basking in the afterglow of jokes only two people would ever hear.

Charmy looked at him and smirked. “Same time tomorrow.”

Flimp gasped happily.

Frenchy laughed. Somewhere out there people chased viral fame, comedy clips, and trending sounds. In here, three friends shared jokes that would never leave the room, except in spirit, memory, and the quiet whisper of hashtags that Charmy pretended not to understand, like #StandUpComedy, #CoffeeShopLife, #ComedyNight, #ViralHumor, and #MemeCulture, floating invisibly above The Candy Bar like laughter you could not quite hear but knew was there.